


put that silly little grudge behind us

by suitablyskippy



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Episode: s05e09 Ron and Diane, F/F, Inappropriate Library Behavior, Library Sex, Library Violence, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitablyskippy/pseuds/suitablyskippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her train of thought careens from its track and crashes, goes up in flames, <i>sexy</i> flames, an inferno of passion – “No!” says Leslie. She’s sitting on a desk. When did she sit on this desk? <i>Why</i> did she sit on this desk? “You listen, you just <i>listen</i> to me –”</p><p>“Why would I listen to you when I could make athletic, exhausting love to you instead?” says Tammy, who’s wedged right there between Leslie’s knees, her hands settled in the curves of Leslie’s waist, looking guilelessly up at her from behind those cat’s-eye frames.</p><p>(The woodworking awards are over; and even if it takes all night to wear Tammy out, Leslie's ready for it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	put that silly little grudge behind us

_Tammy: Oh, my God, I’m so turned on right now. Yeah, tell me you’re not feeling this!_

_Leslie: What? No! You’re so crazy!_

_\-- s05ep09, ‘Ron and Diane’  
_

 

+++

 _[In Ron Swanson’s car, 10:37PM]_  
  
By the time the gates of Hell rise up before them, Tammy is slouching low in the passenger seat, one foot slung up on the dashboard and her legs spread very wide apart. Perhaps in another world Leslie might mistake it for surrender, but Tammy is a dangerous, experienced predator, and Leslie is wise to her games. The threat level doesn’t decrease just because the threat herself has exchanged physical violence for occasional interludes of prolonged erotic moaning; the danger is no less dangerous just because she’s substituted attempted gouging with languorous writhing. 

Leslie lifts her voice above the noise. “I’m taking you back where you belong.” 

The dangerous, experienced predator stops writhing and peers out the window instead. She makes a sound of interest. “The library?” 

_The library_ – without even a trace of revulsion in her voice! Leslie’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. The municipal parking lot is deserted, lit by the energy-efficient radiance of Pawnee’s streetlights. She pushes down her nausea. “Yes,” she says, firm as she can. “I’m performing an exorcism. A demon was summoned, but I’m banishing it back to Hell. I’m escorting it there myself.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about,” says Tammy, sliding a little lower in her seat, “but if you say so, Leslie. Anything I can do to help a dear friend out.” 

Leslie eyes her suspiciously. Tammy is looking up at her, her expression sweetly bewildered. If she slouches any further then her dress will ride up past her butt – and if _that_ happens, then genitals-on-seat contact is guaranteed – and Leslie would absolutely not put it past Tammy to be capable of secreting some kind of toxically intoxicating sex musk into Ron’s vehicular upholstery, so that the moment he next opens his car door he finds himself overpowered once again by a waft of her lethally erotic stench – which means Leslie needs to act, and she needs to act _now_. 

The tires squeal as she swerves into the parking lot. There’s no one else here; she skids to a halt across three bays, cranks off the ignition, and nearly flings open her own door before it occurs to her that turning her back on Tammy for even a moment would give her a prime opportunity to escape. The front seats of Ron’s car are cramped, not much space to maneuver, but Leslie’s ready to make sacrifices tonight: she clambers awkwardly over the gearstick; she clambers more awkwardly still over Tammy, whose hand moves to her own inner thigh as Leslie twists around to open the car door, rubbing slowly and absent-mindedly. 

Leslie slaps it away. “ _Out_ ,” she orders, and seizes Tammy by the wrist to yank her after her, stumbling out into the cool night air. Across the street squats the vast, hulking shell of the library, a looming shape of blackened evil silhouetted against the perfect sodium-yellow glow of Pawnee’s twilight. Queasiness rises in Leslie’s throat, but she shoves it right back down: no _way_ is she letting Tammy have the satisfaction of knowing just how revolted she makes her. 

 

+++

 _[Front steps of Pawnee Public Library, 10:41PM]_  
  
The key-code panel at the library’s side entrance lets out a bleep, and Tammy pushes back the door. 

The darkness yawns open before them. The library’s unlit hallways lie in wait, ready to devour, ready to consume. 

“Turn on the lights,” says Leslie. She’s had nightmares that begin this way: trapped in the library, in the dark, at the strike of midnight, alone but for a single violent maniac. “Tammy, that’s an order. Tammy. Do you hear me? I said –”

The door swings closed behind them. The last of the streetlights’ illumination winks out. Swallowed deep inside the belly of the library, the darkness is absolute. 

A hand settles at her waist. “After hours in the library,” says Tammy, so unexpectedly close to Leslie’s ear that she yelps in alarm, stumbles back and hits the wall. “You know what that makes you? A trespasser. And you know what happens to trespassers?”

“They’re ruthlessly forced to borrow books against their will,” Leslie says at once. A giddy, light-headed nausea is leeching through her. “Which is an outdated, reprehensible practice, in my opinion and in the opinion of all Pawnee, and as City Councilwoman I intend to –”

“They’re punished,” says Tammy. She’s closer still, so close that her breath is hot on Leslie’s neck. “Did you say ruthlessly? I like that. Sure, I can work with that. Yeah, they’re punished – _ruthlessly_.” 

“Oh, my God,” says Leslie, which was not at all what she intended to say, and finds herself suddenly so overcome by light-headedness that she grabs at Tammy for balance – she _means_ to grab at Tammy for balance – but Tammy must have been oozing nearer and nearer still, with the slow unstoppable movement of lava and her skin exactly as lethally perilously scorching hot where it touches Leslie’s – and instead her hands find Tammy’s butt. There’s a reason – she’s pretty _sure_ there’s a reason – that that’s not where her hands should be, but what kind of reason would it ever be? – what kind of reason _could_ there be, to not do something that feels so natural? That feels so _right_?

“Well, jeez, Leslie, don’t let _me_ hold you back,” says Tammy, and wiggles closer. Her voice sounds the way that dying from overheating because of wearing too many clothes probably feels. Leslie’s dress is zipped tight up her back: that’s a safety risk. A definite safety risk. She could suffocate, or boil alive, or –

“Can you,” says Leslie, “my dress, if I just – for safety, if I just take it off, God, I’m so _hot_ , are you hot? Are you feeling this? Are you feeling – it smells so _weird_ in here,” while Tammy wiggles closer still, her hands leaving snail trails of prickling, uncomfortable heat as they slide up Leslie’s sides, “like fries? Like hot fries? Can you smell it? Can you take off my – I thought food was _banned_ in the library,” she says, “I thought you – you, I thought...”

“Uh-huh?” says Tammy, sweet and encouraging. Her hands have closed tight around Leslie’s wrists. 

Leslie’s eyes are adjusting to the darkness; in the gloom, light winks from the frame of Tammy’s glasses. “I thought you banned food in the library,” says Leslie, getting louder, “so you could enforce starvation, and force innocent Pawneeans to suffer, because you’re a sick, twisted force of evil and I know what you’re doing! You! _I know what you’re doing_!”

“Oh, _Leslie_...” In the darkness, a hand slides from her wrist to her elbow and lingers there. “I know we’ve had our squabbles in the past, but all those silly little grudges – who needs em? Can’t we put all that behind us? Can’t you believe I’m just a woman looking for a little intimate companionship?”

“ _No_!” The trick to evading a bear is not to show fear; Tammy is far more dangerous than any bear could ever be, and Leslie holds her ground. “I know what you’re doing, and I will not fall for it! I will _not_! So you can just – just stop that right, oh, God, now you stop that right _now_ –”

A wet towel – that’s what Leslie needs. Or maybe a ladder. Would the air be clearer at a higher altitude? Stuck in a fire, cover your face in a wet towel to filter out the smoke – but Tammy is far, far worse than any fire. Leslie needs a gasmask. A full-body chemical protection suit with built-in air filtration. Anti-toxin treatment. She’s breathing rapidly through her mouth, but she’s only getting dizzier. 

“You’re attracted to me, and I have no problem using sex as a tool of manipulation. We’re perfect together.” Very sweet. Very reasonable. It makes so much sense, when Tammy puts it like that. She touches Leslie’s cheek; she moves her hand down, very gently, her neck, her collarbone, along to her bare shoulder – “Don’t fight it,” says Tammy, and really, why would she? What’s there to fight? What would Leslie even –

Tammy yanks Leslie’s purse from her shoulder, headbutts her so hard that her skull smacks back against the wall, and runs for it. 

By the time Leslie’s vision has unblurred, sitting slumped against the wall with her head in her hands, ears ringing, there are shrieks of victorious delight echoing through the stacks – those desolate, godforsaken library stacks. The shrieks are growing ever more distant. The lights have flickered on overhead, dimmed to half-strength; the library is illuminated by an ominous fluorescent gloom. 

Ron’s car keys were in that purse. Tammy is nowhere to be seen. The chase is on.

 

+++

 _[At the outskirts of Historical Fiction, 11:05PM]_  
  
“Worried? No. No, of course not. Not at all. About Tammy? No. No. Me? Worried? About _Tammy_? No-o-o-o. No! Nope, nope, nope. Knope says nope! Not at _all._ ” 

Leslie tries to show the camera a smile. It’s not the most convincing smile she’s ever shown it. 

“It’s – just pheromones.” Her voice is no less assertive for the fact it barely rises above a hushed and frantic whisper. She’s crouching beneath a desk, in the shadows, her heels in one hand. “Pheromones, they’re – that’s it. That must be how she does it. Sex pheromones. Like a skunk. She sprays out a cloud of sex pheromones and then it gets all over you and _clings_ to you. In your hair. And in your clothes. And then wherever she goes she’s in a cloud of it, and _so are you_. There’s no escape.” 

The camera is close enough to pick up Leslie’s breathing, coming fast and shallow. In the sepulchral gloom of the library, there’s no other sound. 

“So – what’s there to be worried about?” She offers the camera another smile. It’s even more panicky than the last. “Huh? Huh? What’s the big deal? There’s _no_ deal! Can’t be a big deal if there isn’t even a deal! So I can’t stop thinking about my boss’s crazy ex-ex-wife officiating my all-nude presidential inauguration, so what?”

A moment of silence. 

“I mean, I’m not gonna –” An abrupt stop, and then an abrupt start: “I’m not gonna just – I’m not, because I’d, that’s – like, who’d _do_ that? Who’d even _do_ that? What kinda crazy talk even _is_ – but I mean it’s just, like, whatever. You know? _Whatever_ ,” says Leslie. She flings out an eloquent hand. She’s flushed in the face, and only flushing pinker. 

Another moment of silence. 

“Dammit,” she says, and scrambles out from beneath the table, already yelling Tammy’s name. 

 

+++

_[The depths of the reading room, 11:14PM]_

Leslie could put a stop to this any time she wanted. She could put a stop to it right now, if she wanted – in fact, she is _going_ to put a stop to this right now – she is going to back off, and she is going to re-establish her sexual autonomy and also, while she’s at it, she is going to establish the fact that she absolutely does not want to write her name across Tammy’s hypnotically perky breasts in whipped cream and lick it all right off again, regardless of whatever she may or may not have yelled several minutes ago while fumbling desperately with the zipper of her dress, kicking off her other heel, attempting to pin Tammy against a wheeled shelving ladder that skidded aside and refused to stay still. 

She is going to do exactly this _and more_ , and she takes a breath in preparation –

– and instead inhales another gust of whatever the hell it is. Her train of thought careens from its track and crashes, goes up in flames, _sexy_ flames, an inferno of passion – “No!” says Leslie. She’s sitting on a desk. When did she sit on this desk? _Why_ did she sit on this desk? “You listen, you just _listen_ to me –”

“Why would I listen to you when I could make athletic, exhausting love to you instead?” says Tammy, who’s wedged right there between Leslie’s knees, her hands settled in the curves of Leslie’s waist, looking guilelessly up at her from behind those cat’s-eye frames. 

Leslie stares at her for a moment, her mouth working. “That’s a great question,” she says at last, “you’re a very – let it never be said that you’re a, not, uh – very intelligent woman oh _screw_ it,” and she digs her heel into the small of Tammy’s back and yanks her in to express agreement in a way that feels more like licking her way into a live electric socket. 

So there’s been some making out, whatever. Who didn’t make out with a gal pal or two in college? Well, not Leslie, but she thought about it, and she’s certainly dreamed enough times of perfect astonishing soft-haired long-legged Ann for it to count for _something_ – 

“ _Oh_ yeah,” says Tammy, right into her mouth, “that’s it, that’s the stuff, you’re feeling it now –” 

“Stop talking,” Leslie says immediately, “and start –” Start what? Leslie’s not entirely sure, but Tammy gives her a not particularly gentle shove backwards which means that _she_ probably is, so Leslie scoots back to make space on the desk, yanking Tammy up after her, even though she’s had allergic reactions that felt better than this and drunken blackouts where her head felt clearer than this. The hairs down the back of her neck are possibly singeing themselves off; her skin is possibly dissolving from contact with Tammy’s acidic saliva. It seems kind of crazy that Leslie’s _ever_ wasted time on things that weren’t sex, having it or thinking about it or urgently, frantically coaxing Tammy into it, but that’s okay, that’s no problem, she’s got the whole of tonight to make up for the fact she’s been wasting her entire life so far on irrelevant, superficial matters like parks and politics. 

 

+++

_[Still in the reading room, 11:28PM]_

Leslie’s senses return to her, briefly: a smooth mahogany surface, very nice if not for the malevolent aura of library evil saturated into its very grain, her dress hiked up but her underwear still present and correct, Tammy straddling her waist and moving above her with the slowly undulating rhythms of an advancing tide of deadly toxic waste, and clutched tight in Tammy’s hand: a long, serrated hunting knife. 

“That’s a knife!” 

“Mm-hm,” says Tammy. 

“ _Tammy_! Right there! You’re holding a knife!” 

“Mm-hm,” says Tammy, whose mouth is somewhere, doing something, and consequently making it very difficult to concentrate on the matters at hand, or rather the gigantic hunting knife at hand, as opposed to the way Leslie’s blood is now driving lust throughout her body instead of oxygen and making it seem increasingly likely that she might just die of sex. “Don’t you think a woman should be able to defend herself, if she has to?”

“You’re crazy,” says Leslie. Her voice is growing increasingly high-pitched. “You’re crazy and you’re holding a knife. You’re crazy and you’re holding a knife and I’m making out with you, okay, okay, oh God, okay, let’s just—” Her attempt to sit up is unsuccessful. “Okay, let’s not. Okay. Okay. Where did you even get that thing? Do you keep it on you? Is that the kind of thing you do? Did you have it just now? I didn’t notice you had it, did you just pull it out of nowhere?”

Tammy heaves a sigh, and sits back. “Not out of _nowhere_ ,” she says, which is so uncannily specific a denial that Leslie’s mind hits a barrier of sheer alarm as soon as she tries to parse it – blanks out with horror – and then Tammy moves back in, determination renewed, and all Leslie’s worries are swept away at once by a soothing, freakish tide of sexual euphoria. 

 

+++

_[Somewhere in the reference section, 12:14AM]_

The camera shows a deserted expanse of library, the shelves packed high and the aisles empty, shadowy. A few minutes pass in silence. 

From somewhere, there’s a noise. 

The noise continues, building up, growing louder, growing nearer – and far off, at the distant shadowed end of the library, Tammy sprints between the shelving aisles, shrieking obscenities. A moment later Leslie follows behind, hollering exorcism rites from a book she holds open in one hand. In the other hand, she brandishes a flaming candlestick. Its light jumps across the shelves, through the shadows. 

The firelight fades. The shouting grows more distant. Once again, the camera lingers on an empty stretch of shelving.

 

+++

_[Near the DVD lending racks, 01:07AM]_

“Is this –” 

Leslie stops, suddenly. Her hair is wild, and her stare is wild, and one strap of her dress is sliding from her shoulder, unzipped all the way down to the small of her back. 

“Is this,” she starts again, “this, it’s – because the thing _is_ –” 

The camera picks up no other sound, but she freezes. Her eyes flicker to the side. 

When she starts to speak again, it’s in a whisper. 

“It’s December sixth, 2012,” she says. The camera moves in closer. “Or maybe December seventh, I don’t know, time has lost all meaning. It’s either December sixth or December seventh, my name is Leslie Knope, this is the Pawnee Public Library –” briefly, she makes the sign of the evil eye, “– and if you’re watching this after my death, that means I didn’t make it out of here alive, and there are two things you need to know. Firstly, Tammy Swanson-Swanson is dangerous. She is dangerous, and she feeds on fear. And sex. Fear and sex. Find Ron Swanson and take him to a safe place, and do not release him back into the wild until Tammy has been found, and sedated, and possibly microchipped. Secondly, my funeral arrangements. Nothing big. A twenty-one gun salute. Ruth Bader Ginsburg leads the eulogies. If Ruth’s busy, Ben can do it, but he has to wear a Ruth mask and do it in a Ruth impression voice – it’s fine, he knows about this, we’ve discussed it. Next –”

 

+++

 _[At the lending desk, 01:36AM]_  
  
“You are not getting out of here!” yells Leslie. “And I can see you pointing at a sign that tells me shouting is forbidden in the library, but you know what, I don’t care! _I don’t care_! I have no respect for your authority! The library can try to restrain my self-expression, but _I will not be restrained_!”

“Well, you say that _now_ ,” says Tammy, and without breaking their tensely prolonged eye contact across the lending desk, she reaches beneath it – retrieves a box labelled _CHECK OUT SLIPS_ – upends it. 

With a solid thump, half a dozen yards of rope hit the desk. A few pairs of steel handcuffs clatter out after them. 

“You keep that stuff at _work_?” says Leslie. “Wait, no, what am I saying, of course you do.”

“I like to be prepared,” says Tammy. She gives the box a shake, and a lone plastic object Leslie can’t immediately identify drops out too. It’s neon pink, smooth, and gives a little jingling sound as it bounces from the desk and rolls away beneath a shelving unit. “Just the basics. Just girl stuff, you know? Like making sure you always have the essentials in your purse. Spare pantyhose, spare condoms, spare rations in case you have to stake out a location, spare lockpick in case you have to break into the location first, spare fake police ID in case anyone catches you breaking into the location, spare lube, spare handcuffs, spare emergency dildo – it lights up and flashes,” fondly nostalgic, when Leslie fails to cover up her look of revolted curiosity in time, “and also once it got stuck up Ron’s butt and we had did it three times in the emergency room before the doctor called him in. It’s like a pet name. Pretty cute, right? It’s around here somewhere, you wanna have a go?”

“No,” says Leslie. “No. No. That’s – no. It’s not. _No_.”

“Your loss,” says Tammy. She slings a hank of rope across her shoulder and clambers up onto the desk. “Well, listen, Les, if you’re not gonna get over here and stick this in me, then I’m going back to the original plan.” From the desk she clambers onto a stack of shelves; from there, she begins her ascent. 

“No,” says Leslie, and then shakes herself from her state of blank horror. She casts her purse aside, heaves herself up onto the desk, and gives chase. “ _No_! You get right back here, Tammy, I had you where I want you and I’m keeping you there!”

“Uh-huh?” says Tammy, a little breathless. She’s attempting to shimmy her way up towards a high window. The shelves are creaking beneath her weight. “You wanna tell me more about that?”

The varnished surface is slippery beneath Leslie’s bare feet. She skids her way across it, launches herself at the stack of shelves beside Tammy’s, collides, and hits the floor – well, so what? _She’s_ not a librarian. _She_ hasn’t gone through the years of specialized and criminally deviant librarian training Tammy probably has. Through the books, she catches sight of a wheeled shelving ladder standing in the next aisle: Leslie scrambles to her feet. The squeaking of its wheels as she drags it back is almost as shrill as Tammy’s crazed little giggle when she realizes the chase is _on_. 

 

+++

 _[Deep in the Local History stacks, 2:56AM]_  
  
“I see it now,” she tells the camera. Her voice is urgent, frantic, as though begging her audience to understand. “I see it. I see everything. I –”

From offscreen, there comes an unearthly ululation. There’s no hesitation: Leslie hurls herself instantly to the side, out of shot, and the camera lingers on the bookshelves which had been behind her. The audio picks up the sound of running feet – splintering wood – and then the fierce hiss of pressurized gas escaping. 

The library begins to flood with smoke. 

 

+++

_[The floor near the reshelving carts, 3:31AM]_

“Have you ever thought about switching departments?” says Tammy. “You’d be a sweet little intern.” She smoothes back Leslie’s hair, as sweet and reasonable as Leslie is dazed and sweaty. “I’d tell you what to do, and you’d do it. Shelving books all morning, staffing the circulation desk all afternoon, eating me out in my office whenever I feel like it. Wherever I feel like it. In the restricted shelves, maybe. Under the lending desk. In the fresh vegetables aisle at the grocery store, no one ever goes down there. Wouldn’t you like that, Leslie?”

Leslie’s still too busy catching her breath to speak. Her head in Tammy’s lap, she gazes up at the library ceiling, its brass lamps, the shelves rising up to it. Would she like that? She’s not sure. 

“I think you would,” Tammy says, in the kind of voice that sounds like she’s been considering this for a very long time and really feels as though it would be the best possible course of action. It does make a lot of sense, after all. Tammy’s ideas _always_ make a lot of sense. How has Leslie not realized before now? She’s so lucky to have Tammy on her side. 

 

+++

_[Still near the reshelving carts, 3:54AM]_

“It’s a request for transfer,” Leslie announces, and holds up several sheets of loose leaf paper for the camera, all of them covered in handwriting. Tammy is at her side, an arm looped around her waist. “Just a first draft, but we’re working on it. Tammy helped me write it, she’s been very supportive.”

“ _Very_ supportive,” agrees Tammy. She rests her head on Leslie’s shoulder, and offers the camera a smile. 

“I’ll be handing it in to Ron first thing in the morning, and after that it’s just a matter of bureaucracy – should have the paperwork finalized by noon, at the latest. And then,” says Leslie, “I’ll be a librarian!”

“I’ll go with her when she speaks to Ron about it,” Tammy tells the camera. “Just for moral support, of course. Girls gotta stick together. Librarians gotta have each other’s backs. Also I want to see Ron’s face when Leslie tells him she’s leaving him for me. Also I wanna see him cry, and I wanna suck on his moustache while it’s still full of tears, and I wanna maybe fuck on his desk afterwards – him or Leslie, whatever, maybe both at once...—Aw, hey now,” says Tammy, apparently struck by sudden concern, and gives Leslie’s waist a little squeeze. “Hey, c’mon – you doing okay there?”

Leslie is motionless, staring into the camera in horror. “I’ll be a _librarian_ ,” she says. “Did you hear me? Did you get that on film? I said – I actually _said_ – she’s in my mind,” she says abruptly, and shoves Tammy away from her. “You gotta get up earlier than that to fool _me_ , Satan!”

Tammy’s expression contorts with disgust. “Goddammit, Leslie! I was _so_ close!” 

“This never happened!” yells Leslie, and flings her sheaf of papers to the sky before diving for the camera. “I want that tape destroyed! _This never happened_!”

A few chaotic moments of blonde hair – screaming – the grey-and-brown patterns of the carpet – shrill, hysterical laughter – flashes of a bookshelf, a glimpse of bare skin, a discarded hunting knife – and the film cuts out. 

 

+++

 _[On the fringes of Science Fiction, 4:14AM]_  
  
“Have you guys kept the cameras rolling all night?” 

If there’s a response, it’s inaudible. 

“You’re into that kind of thing, huh?” Tammy’s sitting on the edge of a table, alone. An emergency fire axe rests close at hand; a fire extinguisher is propped beside her. “Voyeurism? Girl on girl? Or the librarian thing, maybe it’s the librarian thing. You like that stuff? No judgment, we’re all friends here. How many times did you sneak off to the bathroom to—?” The sentence trails away. Her hand is moving over the smooth, upright side of the fire extinguisher, slowly up and slowly down, a meaningful gesture. 

Whatever response comes from behind the camera, it’s inaudible. 

“Oh, sure,” says Tammy. “Sure, yeah. I could be into that. It’s kinda hot, I’m feeling it.” 

A moment of reflective silence. From elsewhere in the library comes the sound of screaming, but only at irregular intervals, and never for long. 

“I’m gonna need those tapes,” Tammy says, at last. She leans forward, and a portion of her chest is abruptly blotted out by flesh-colored pixelation. “It’ll work out better for you if you just give me them, but I’ll bargain if I have to. And I’ll warn you now, I drive a hard bargain. An _extremely_ hard bargain.” 

The moment lingers. 

“I also have an axe,” she says, and hefts it into her lap. 

 

+++

 _[The front steps of Pawnee Public Library, 5:02AM]_  
  
Dawn is streaking through the sky, and the day’s first pesticide mists have drifted in from their far-off fields, settling in sour, chemical clouds across the town. That and the fresh air are beginning to clear Leslie’s head: the smell of home, the smell of normality, the smell of things other than books or sex or terror or gasoline or deep-fat-fryer-flavored perfume designed specifically to lure in Ron, or the lingering dumpster reek that’s been clinging on to each of them all night long. The zipper on Leslie’s dress has broken at some point since the awards ceremony, but it doesn’t matter. The back of her dress hangs wide open, but the ordeal is nearly over. Leslie is nearly free. 

“No one can know about this,” she says. She says it in the firm, confident voice of a woman who will tolerate no argument, because that’s exactly what she is. “No one can _ever_ know. Never ever _ever_.” 

“You want to keep me as your dirty little secret?” Tammy shifts foot to foot, one step below Leslie, blocking her in. “You’re not saying you’d be ashamed if anyone found out, are you, Les? You’re not saying you’d be _humiliated_ – if anyone found out?” She shifts again, more deliberately. A sound escapes her: possibly involuntary, certainly sexual. 

“You stop that,” says Leslie, and Tammy turns smartly away, acting for all the world as though she’s wearing a demure skirt suit rather than a scrap of a dress, halfway torn through with friction burns from the library carpet, certainly flashing at least one nipple to Pawnee’s sleepy morning streets. 

She says, “How about if someone released the security footage?” 

“You stop that _right now_ ,” says Leslie, and chases after her down the library steps. 

“Or did a tell-all interview with Joan Callamezzo on tomorrow’s Pawnee Today?” 

“Don’t you dare! Get back here, don’t you _dare_!” 

Tammy sways out across the crosswalk without checking either way for traffic, which seems like exactly the kind of wild, adrenalin-junkie behavior Leslie would expect from a satanic being in possession of nine infernal lives, each life devoted to ruining someone else’s, which is what Ron bellowed through the office when last week Tammy sent him the link to a live webcam feed of herself lounging on his own bed clad in nothing but three strategically-placed fried eggs, and which, after tonight, now seems more plausible a theory than ever. 

Leslie starts running. Tammy glances back, and starts running too. “What if I sold your underwear on eBay?” she yells, and hurls herself at the low wall of the municipal parking lot, scrambles up and drops down the other side. 

“You don’t _have_ my –” but diving across the wall after her, there’s a definite breeze. “Okay, you do! Whatever! That’s not the point!” 

The parking lot is still deserted so early in the morning. Sturdy and all alone, Ron’s car is just inside the entrance and slanted across three parking bays where Leslie skidded it to an emergency halt last night. Tammy is already scrabbling to get in. 

“The point,” yells Leslie, “is _give me those car keys_!” 

Tammy whirls about, her back against the trunk. “I cannot _believe_ how cynical you are, Leslie!” she says, so earnestly that Leslie almost – almost! – _almost_ falls for it. “We worked out our differences, didn’t we? C’mon. No hard feelings. I’m ready to call it quits if you are.” 

That sounds suspicious. “I want those car keys,” says Leslie, “and then maybe we can call it quits. Maybe we can _think_ about calling it quits.”

Tammy lifts her hands in surrender, good-humored as can be. “All I want is a good night’s sleep and to put this whole mess behind us. Girl Scout’s honor, Leslie, I swear.” 

“Give me those car keys,” says Leslie. It’s her sternest voice; she picked it up from dog training shows. “Tammy. Come on. Give me those car keys. Tammy. The car keys. Give them to me. I’m not gonna stop telling you to give me the car keys until you give me the car keys, so just give me the car keys. Tammy. Give me –”

Tammy’s expression abruptly sours. “Jesus, Leslie, you’re such a little priss... Forget it, take the keys if you want them so bad. And I guess I’ll just go home and _not_ fuck Ron, then. If that’s _really_ what you want.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” says Leslie, and holds out her hand for the keys. “I gotta say, for a minute there I wasn’t sure you were gonna be mature about thi—” A hand clamps down on her wrist. “—but I’m whoa whoa Tammy _what are you_ –”

Tammy’s grip is inhumanly strong. The trunk of Ron’s car slams open – half-shoved, half-tripped, Leslie never stood a chance – the trunk slams closed – and for all Leslie’s shrieking, all her hammering on the cramped carpet walls, all her frenzied efforts to kick it right back open – the engine still roars into life moments later. Its grumble is deafeningly loud inside the trunk. 

It’s been a very long night, and dawn has only just begun to break: it isn’t over yet.

**Author's Note:**

> [Thank you very much to Incandenza, who inspected my Americanisms for me and who's also been enabling my relentless Leslie/Tammy passions ever since I started watching. ♥]


End file.
